It's been five days since my meeting with Emiliano Sánchez.
Correction.
It's after midnight.
So technically, it's been six days since I offered him the most exquisite bargaining chip of his career — the Prime Minister's little brat.
And now, I have exactly twenty-three hours and forty-six minutes before I lose Clara.
And I don't lose.
It clashes with my aesthetic .
I first heard about Sánchez three years ago — some peasant, unwashed alpha crawling from the gutter like he owned it. Within months, he had gutted and devoured the entire underground pharmaceutical industry like it was a brunch plate.
Drugs. Omega trafficking. Money laundering.
Firearms?
No.
He deemed them distasteful. Useless.
It was at one of those awful annual galas — an event for lawful and unlawful pharmaceutical "visionaries" to clink glasses, lie through whitened teeth, and try to outdress each other in desperation.
I was there, of course.
Dripping in haute couture and the compliments of men with aging wives.
I was in the middle of showcasing my surgeon's latest masterpiece — a little lift here, a little tuck there, nothing too desperate — when the topic shifted to the street brat himself.
"Speaking of face freezing, did you all hear what happened to Asclepius Pharmaceuticals?"
"Tragic.I tripled the security around me with betas after that."
"Pointless. His pheromones are one of a kind. Omegas, betas, alphas- doesn't matter. All he needs is a couple of seconds."
I glanced sideways at my bird-brained nephew.
He was too busy rubbing elbows with the representatives of our competition, smiling like the true incompetent he was.
Men.
This is where the real information was gathered. In the pit of vipers. The wives and mothers corner, all silver-haired and gloved with treason and lace.
Out of the spotlight and the public eye.
Where the patriarchal leader didn't matter.
It was not based on respect, money or niceties.
Just power and hunger.
And I was starving.
"What did he do?", I asked, nonchalantly smoothing my dress.
"Sanchez Emiliano killed the CEO of Asclepius Pharmaceuticals. It was brutal. Rumors say he used just his pheromones."
"I heard it was so unbearable, the poor guy clawed his eyes out with his own hands."
"No, no, he stabbed himself in the throat with a pen."
"Please.", another interrupted. "He actually smashed his brains out on the concrete floor until his skull was nothing but cracked eggshells."
I sipped my champagne, listening closely.
A brat that powerful? Could be an important accessory and I love to accessorize.
"Where is he now?", I asked, disrupting the tasteless cat fight.
"Nobody knows. He appears and disappears at will as a ghost."
"Everyone wants him, but he chooses," another whispered, eyes darting. "My husband has been trying to arrange a meeting for four months. Not a word."
I remember rolling my eyes that night.
Almost sprained a lash doing it.
But now-
Now I would frown if I could.
I finally gripped the brat. To use him to the fullest. To display it in my collection like he's a new pair of Louboutins.
But the deal started to smell sour- a knock-off Channel if you may.
I can't lose Clara.
I don't want to trade her for the improved pheromone blocker- no matter the profits.
Because Clara isn't just a daughter.
She's my masterpiece.
I didn't raise a girl. I sculpted an heir.
Not like me.
Me.
Entirely. Undoubtedly. Flawlessly.
Her thoughts are my thoughts. Her smile, my calculations. Her victories, my design.
Losing her… would be worse than death.
It would be irrelevance.
Which means I need to find the Prime Minister's insolent little snort.
He's been missing for over a month now.
And what does Daddy Dearest do?
He builds an entire presidential campaign on the heartbreak of losing a son. Tragic. Tearjerking. Pedestrian.
Tasteless, really.
I expected more from a man of his class. To drag his dirty laundry through the public square like some peasant's widow? To parade grief for political points?
I am ashamed I ever f**ked that man.
In my defense, he was much quieter then. And knew where to put his mouth.
All I could grasp was the facts- my usually useless nephew got the brat's location.
Of course, that's when the real headache started.
Wrinkle-producing levels of stress.
Why?
Because that moron vanished.
He threw a tantrum because I gave Emiliano his jizz dump. Then he took all the research for my pheromone blocker and vanished into thin air.
A pawn on the loose. How endearingly pathetic.
Like I said- I do not lose.
Of course, I anticipated this. Always do.
I took… precautions. From the moment he could toddle in his designer diapers, I implanted a tracking device — right at the nape of his neck. Invisible, undetectable. Buried in tissue, like our family's secrets.
The last thing I need is that delinquent to whine to me about freedom.
There is no freedom in the world.
Not for a woman, not for weak men.
This world will bite into your throat and spit it out. Regurgitate your flesh.
And survival requires a price.
And I? I collect.
So imagine my absolute delight when my men burst into that dingy hotel room and found Killian…
Hugging.
My.
Property.
The price I need to pay for Emiliano's brain. The pawn I need to sacrifice to protect my legacy- Clara.
I couldn't help but laugh at his gaze.
Protective.
Territorial.
Threatening.
Just like his mom's before I injected her to overdose. She was protecting them from me. An impediment in my future. Needed to be discarded.
Sadly, I can't discard him too since I need a male alpha to represent my company. So the buffoons of society can wrap their brain cells into showing some respect.
So, what to do?
What to do?
Rearrange the board.
If the game is rigged, darling-
Become the dealer.